


Exhibit A

by orphan_account



Series: The Clockbox Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2011-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you were to tell John Watson this morning that he would end his night with Sherlock Holmes naked in his bed, he would have laughed awkwardly and walked away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhibit A

If you were to tell John Watson this morning that he would end his night with Sherlock Holmes naked in his bed, he would have laughed awkwardly and walked away. But here he was, after a seemingly normal day, returning from another tedious shift at the surgery and Sherlock reclining on the sofa after solving a particularly trying case the day before, with the detective… naked in his bed.

There was never a time where he had been vehemently opposed to the idea of kissing his flatmate per se, but  any indication of his feelings towards the impossible man had been pushed so far to the back of his mind and crossed out in (what he _thought_ was) permanent marker that he no longer viewed it as a possibility.

There were certain things in John Watson’s mind that were off-limits— thoughts that he refused to uncover unless it was completely necessary. It was the closest thing he could come to hitting the delete button (how Sherlock was able to just _delete_ information was beyond him.) The mental list had been conjured up during his time in Afghanistan where he watched his friend’s die, was unable to save many and saw too many violent deaths—enough to last him a lifetime.

The most recent addition to the list though, had been the _romantic_ and _sexual_ feelings he associated with one Sherlock Holmes. The feelings weren’t rejected because they were towards a man—no, John Watson is a man comfortable with his sexuality, whether he is with a man or woman—only rejected because Sherlock was his flatmate, his colleague, his best friend. It was more than obvious from the start that unwanted sexual advances would not only make things complicated, but more than likely would end their living arrangement all together.

Up until a few months ago, John wasn’t even sure that Sherlock was sexual—he seemed to have a strictly monogamous relationship with his work. That was of course, until John stumbled down the stairs in the middle of night for some tea to find Sherlock with his tongue down another man’s throat leaning against a wall in the sitting room. Just as he was about to make a run for it unnoticed, things got a little more _shocking_. Sherlock made eye-contact with John and moaned the most _sensual_ noise John had ever heard. _Oh… god._

John immediately turned around and marched back upstairs to his bedroom. He was confused, sleepy and was that a… twinge of jealousy? Lucky sod, getting off with Sherlock Holmes; getting off at all! And why in the bloody fuck would Sherlock look at him? Sure he noticed everything, but no one in their right mind looks at their flatmate and moans like _that_ while they’re occupied with someone else. _Ugh_.

Needless to say John did not get to have his tea that night.

The next morning was uncomfortable, with Sherlock floating around in his dressing gown looking positively, gloriously fucked. But somehow the topic of the night before never came up and the awkward  feeling was short-lived. Before John could realise though, the coincidental touches became more than a fleeting happenstance. Sherlock walked just a little bit closer, their fingers accidently brushing past each other as they strode. As if Sherlock had put any value towards personal space in the first place, any semblance of it was now obliterated. And he never did see the other bloke from that night again.

 _No_ , he had to push it to the back of his mind and not think about it. Sherlock was his best friend and that was the most it could ever be, _right?_

So one could begin understand the surprise he felt to find himself kneeling on the carpet beside the sofa with his lips ghosting over Sherlock’s. What just a moment before was a steady heartbeat was now an intense bass sensation pounding through his entire body. It was unexpected, this position he found himself in, but it was more than welcome.  

Just before John could close the gap himself, it was Sherlock that lifted his head from the sofa and softly grasped the back of John’s neck before pressing a quick, chaste kiss upon his lips. Their foreheads rested upon one another, simply staring before they both gave in, what was once chaste was now raw, passionate, filled with _need_. John’s tongue wisped curiously across Sherlock’s fuller bottom lip, tasting, now invading. The grip on the back of John’s neck grew stronger as Sherlock pulled him closer and _there_ \-- the noise he had heard that night, the most quiet, sweetest groan was being expelled from Sherlock’s mouth into John’s. It was… divine and to say the least, quite arousing.

They pulled apart just enough for Sherlock to sit up, tug at John’s jumper and pull it up over his head. He then returned his hand to the back of his neck and began drawing light circles up and down John’s spine. John smiled, “Bedroom, then?” He didn’t believe that he was reading this wrong, but if he was, he had already lost his jumper—might as well add dignity in their too. But Sherlock bowed his head into John’s neck and gave a committal groan, nipping delicately at the skin between collarbone and shoulder.  It was John, this time that whimpered as he tilted his head towards the ceiling.

This was happening, this was really happening. John led Sherlock to his feet and up the stairs to his bedroom, where there was considerably less clutter and more bed space for _whatever_ was going to happen out of this. They had only just arrived in the room before Sherlock had stripped, abandoning his tailored garments astray on the floor. John had just finished deserting his own clothes when he finally looked at Sherlock—all pale, long lines, and somehow the most gorgeous body John ‘Three Continents’ Watson had ever seen. Sherlock’s eyes were glued with equal fervour to John’s form before he gave an evocative smirk.

Sherlock pushed John down onto the bed before crawling on top of him and continuing his earlier attack of lips. Their erections sweeping past one another, groaning equally into each other’s mouths. Sherlock’s hands grazed across John’s chest, skittering across the scar on his shoulder, taking his sweet time around John’s nipples and down towards the sides of his abdomen. Without much of a thought, Sherlock broke  the kiss, smiled wickedly at John and began to _tickle_ him.

Tickle him?

“Sherlock!” John laughed ferociously unable to avoid thrashing around the bed. “What the hell, stop it—“ the giggles continued and so did Sherlock’s attack. His fingers travelled intently over John’s sides and his now softening stomach.

“You know, I don’t think I will.” Sherlock replied, this was amusing to him: to see John laughing wildly like this, it was unlike any other laugh Sherlock had acknowledged from John before.

“Sherlock, oh my god” John laughed, unable to finish his sentence, only able to arch his back and take the brunt of the tickles. His breath was rapid and his laugh only became more frequent and louder. “Two can…” laughter, “…play this game.” John roared, suddenly overtaking Sherlock and rolling so that he was now on top, in control of this tickling monster.  

His fingers danced quickly over Sherlock’s chest, he could see it in the man’s eyes that he was about to lose it. First a smile broke out, one that Sherlock tried to hide, biting his bottom lip until, like a volcano erupting, he exploded in _laughter_. Oh, that was a sight to see. Sherlock Holmes, on John Watson’s bed stark naked laughing his arse off. This was real. John could tell, these emotions, they weren’t a sham like they usually were while they were on cases. This smile, this laugh, it was all real and it was beautiful. That does not mean though, that John would relent  in the Tickle War. If John could survive Afghanistan he sure as hell could come out of this as Tickle King.

And he did.

“Ahh, surr…suren...” Sherlock muttered through gasping breaths, his cheeks flushed bright red.

“What was that?” John smirked, finally giving his fingers a rest.

“I surrender.” Sherlock seceded, catching his breath after the fifteen minute battle. John, still on top of Sherlock, leaned forward and buried his head in Sherlock’s neck, just breathing him in and placing gentle kisses along his jaw. They had gone from nearly having sex to tickling each other until they were out of breath and somehow it was fine. It was all fine.

John crawled off of Sherlock and laid his head on his chest. He could hear the change in Sherlock’s heartbeat, from intense, shallow breaths to a slow, restful pace. Sherlock’s fingers ran smoothly through John’s hair. It wasn’t quite what John expected tonight would be like—not at all, it wasn’t even what he expected twenty minutes ago, but here he was at the end of his night with Sherlock Holmes in his bed. 

**Author's Note:**

> I want to Writer's cockblock you all until I can't Writer's cockblock you anymore.


End file.
